


In Loco Parentis

by stereokem



Series: Faith and Giles' Halfway House for Wayward Slayers [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Almost Crack, Angst, Domestic, F/M, Flirting, Food Issues, Foster Parents, Friendship, Gen, Giles has to shop for tampons, Humor, Male-Female Friendship, Non-explicit references to period sex, Onesided Buffy/Giles, Periods, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, Wow like heavy angst, but also humor, food insecurity, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: Faith and Giles learn to work together, and to co-foster and rehabilitate their first Slayer. In the meantime, they talk love, sex, parenting, and all the sticky things in between. Flirting ensues. Giles is proper but isn’t afraid of a little blood.-“What about you, though? You’re quite the fatherly figure.”“Thank you,” he replied drily, wondering how he had gotten himself into this conversation.“No, no, c’mon. It’s sexy. You’re very ‘daddy’.”“Please never say that again.”
Relationships: Rupert Giles & Buffy Summers, Rupert Giles & Faith Lehane, Rupert Giles/Buffy Summers, Rupert Giles/Faith Lehane
Series: Faith and Giles' Halfway House for Wayward Slayers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120040
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. Klara

**Author's Note:**

> MENTION OF PERIODS. For some reason, I started thinking about the nitty-gritty of living with and training a bunch of women and just kind of came to the conclusion/realization that . . . Giles is not a stranger to periods. I find it completely unlikely that the Watcher’s Council would not have given Watchers some kind of instruction on how to handle Slayers on their period and/or help them to battle and train through it. Giles has just never had to . . . articulate as much before. I figure periods are the last thing a young girl wants to talk about with her dad-aged Watcher, so it never came up with Buffy; but Faith, being Faith, doesn’t give a flying one. Thus, this part in the series features Giles shopping for tampons, talk of cramps, and non-explicit references to period sex.

At first, Giles had loved Buffy the way fathers love their daughters.

It had happened quite naturally, quite without his noticing; but, looking back on things, he could now see clearly when it started. Even eight years later, he could still distinctly remember the sheer panic he felt when Buffy had been cursed with a bloodstone vengeance spell. He remembered carrying her from the witch’s house to the school, how small she felt in his arms, how desperately he wanted to protect her, to cure her. Everything that happened after that was simply a steady escalation of that feeling.

Despite the reprimand that he had eventually received from the Watcher’s Council—that he was too attached, that he loved his charge like a daughter— he knew it was not an uncommon occurrence. Watchers and Slayers were, in a strange way, made for one another. They worked so closely together, faced so many dangers side-by-side that feelings of some sort often developed. It was the Watcher’s duty, as the older and wiser party, to compartmentalize those feelings. He had failed in that; or, perhaps more accurately, he had not bothered to guard against it.

And, as a matter of course, everything that happened after that was simply a steady escalation.

-

Giles would admit that he was not totally sure how this “halfway house for slayers” would work. He had worked out a rough plan in his own mind, but he and Faith hadn’t discussed all the finer details before leaving for Germany to track down and collect their first Slayer, Klara Sommer. They weren’t running any kind of official program to be sure but, as he lay down to sleep that first night after bringing Klara to their home, he worried that they had perhaps taken on this task too rashly.

When he awoke the next morning, he had the half-asleep, mildly panicked thought that maybe Klara had run away in the night. As he got dressed, he contemplated the merits of listening for a moment at her door for any sign of life—and quickly dismissed the idea.

Instead, he went downstairs and set about making a pot of tea.

About half an hour later, as he was sitting in the comfy chair in the living room with his tea and a book on Etruscan mythology, he heard the sound of someone light-footed descending the stairs.

A few moments later, Klara descended the steps in socked feet. She paused on the landing where the stairs turned and looked down at Giles.

“Good morning,” he greeted. 

Klara shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest. Giles had seen it before when they had picked her up in Stuttgart, but the girl was painfully thin. The soft trousers and shirt she had borrowed from Faith—who was, by no means, a large person— seemed to swallow her, and her face looked gaunt.

Giles shifted in his seat, uncrossing his legs and putting his book aside. _“Would you . . . like some breakfast?”_ he asked her in German.

Klara stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

-

Klara sat somewhat uneasily at the kitchen table while Giles puttered about the kitchen, scrounging up breakfast. He was concerned about Klara’s nutrition—she had been living on the street for almost a year—and decided that toast, eggs, and hash would be both filling and easily digestible. As he cooked, he kept his eyes on the skillets before him; he could tell that Klara was watching him, and he did not want to make her feel uneasy by watching her back.

Thankfully, Faith came downstairs just as Giles was beginning to plate the food. She flounced down the steps in an oversized Pink Floyd t-shirt that—good lord, Giles hadn’t seen that shirt in years. He stopped what he was doing in order to stare at her as she breezed into the kitchen, giving an exaggerated sniff at the air.

“Damn, smells good, Giles.” She looked over to see Klara sitting at the table. “Mornin’.”

To Giles’ surprise, Klara gave Faith a shy smile. “Good morning.”

Without thinking, Giles blurted, “Is that my shirt?”

Faith hummed and bustled up beside him, not quite brushing against him as she grabbed her own cup and poured coffee into it. “I dunno, probably? It was in one of the dresser drawers in my room.” She took a sip from the coffee and looked up at him, batting her eyelashes girlishly. “I guess it’s mine now—unless you wanna fight me for it.”

Giles, grown adult that he was, raised an eyebrow at Faith’s antics. He also glanced briefly at Klara; she was watching them with intense interest, eyes darting between Giles and Faith. Giles cleared his throat and went back to plating the eggs.

“No, that’s . . . fine,” he said in a somewhat long-suffering voice. “You keep it.”

Faith grinned at him and then turned her back, taking her coffee to the kitchen table. She sat down catty-corner to Klara and gave her another friendly smile. “How’d you sleep?” she asked.

Klara shifted. “The bed was very soft.”

Faith nodded. “Yeah. You’ll get used to it.”

The two young women began talking quietly about nothing in particular. Giles fought down a strange surge of triumph in his chest as he finished plating their breakfast and brought three plates to the table. He carefully chose to sit in the seat across from Klara, putting space between them.

They had all been tucking into their breakfast for a few minutes when Klara suddenly spoke: “So . . . this training. What do we do?”

Giles looked up; Klara was, again, looking between Faith and himself, her green eyes alert and questioning. When Giles himself looked to Faith, he found her looking right back at him, saying nothing, giving him a chance to engage with Klara.

Putting down his fork, Giles wiped his hands on one of his cloth napkins. “Well, in the old days, the Slayer—there was only one—would have a dedicated guide known as a Watcher. The Watcher’s duty was to train, and thereby protect, the Slayer. This training ideally consisted of many years of careful coaching in history, lore, mythology, combat, ground acrobatics. . . .” he trailed off, noting the daunted look on Klara’s face. He cleared his throat slightly.

“We, unfortunately, do not have the luxury of that kind of time. Faith and I,” Giles nodded to Faith, “are trying to find Slayers, like you, who have lost their way. Our goal is to give you enough training so that you are able to join one of the many Slayer colonies—or, ‘squads’ I think B—I think they are called.” Giles glanced down briefly into his coffee; he took a deep breath. “The main squad is in Scotland, headed by Buffy Summers; she was the Slayer before you and all the rest were activated. She is our _de facto_ leader.”

“So, why don’t you take me to her now?”

It was a fair question, to be sure; but, for Giles, it meant mentally wrapping his head around the possibility—nay, the eventuality— of seeing Buffy again. Seeing her after they had spent months apart, after the discontent left between them. Their last conversation still echoed in his ears, the anger in her voice. The betrayal.

Fortunately for Giles, Faith jumped to his rescue.

“Because you’ve been living on the street for, like, a year,” Faith chimed in. “You’re skin and bones and you look real twitchy—no offense. You need to get your strength up, and we need to make sure that you’re cool to live with other people.”

“In so many words,” Giles agreed. “As a Slayer, it is your destiny to fight vampires and the forces of darkness; in order to do that, you need to be accustomed to living and working with others.”

Klara was quiet for a moment. “And what if I don’t want to fulfill my destiny?”

Giles felt Faith’s gaze on him, curious. “Well,” he replied slowly, “In the old days, you would not have a choice. However . . . as there are so many activated Slayers . . . if that is what you choose, you are at liberty to do so. I cannot guarantee that you would live a completely normal life—other supernatural entities are often able to sense Slayers, and will seek them out for various reasons.”

Faith spoke up then, setting down her coffee mug. “There’s a chick down in Florida who rejected the title,” she supplied. “That was two years ago. She’s got a kid, now, a husband, nice little house. She has to stake a vamp every now and then, but she’s pretty much under the radar, from what we know.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed. “But, you should be aware that the world is becoming increasingly more dangerous. Various supernatural sites are becoming less stable. Vampires, demons, and magick are more prevalent. Slayers are needed more than ever to combat this mounting evil. You have been given an incredible gift, Klara,” he said softly. “Whether or not you choose to use it is up to you; but, at the very least, we would like to teach you how to use your powers for good.” 

Klara considered all of this for a long moment.

“When do we start?”

Faith grinned. “Right after I take you shopping.”

-

Months and several houseguests later, when Giles had the time to look back and reflect, he would realize that, as rogue Slayers went, Klara Sommer was an ideal first candidate.

She was a willing pupil, for one. Since Klara did not have the luxury of hours-upon-hours of dedicated study time devoted to a single subject, Giles found himself condensing decades of history and lore down into half-hour chunks, throwing as much as he could at her and hoping it would stick. He began with a crash course on demonology and Slayer history (“Slayerology 101” as Faith called it), leading up to when the witch Willow Rosenberg had activated all Slayers and Potentials. (It was almost comical how Klara’s green eyes had bugged out of her thin face when Giles had described the Hellmouth and its collapse.) He was also extremely surprised to find that she had never encountered a vampire—at least, not that she knew of. He introduced her to a smattering of martial arts types and advised her to focus on two; after she made her selection, he coached her in theory and technique. He even endeavored to cover basic home economics, with particular focus on managing one’s own finances. Klara, far from being overwhelmed, seemed to take it all in stride. She was quiet and studious; Giles fancied that Buffy had never been so attentive to her studies.

Klara was also resourceful, which Giles learned by watching her spar with Faith. Faith, Giles was glad to see, was a competent and patient, if not colorful, instructor, and she handled Klara well. Though Klara was, admittedly, still rather thin and under-nourished, she used every trick to her advantage while sparring with the stronger, more experienced Slayer. She clawed and grabbed and, generally, fought very dirty. Faith approved heartily.

“You’re a hellcat, kid,” she’d told Klara after one particularly vicious round of sparring. “ _Und Hollenkatze_.”

The epithet had caused Klara to grin, revealing small sharp teeth.

She was not without her challenges, however. Though Klara immediately took to Faith, she was sometimes only barely cordial towards Giles. He chalked this up to a general distrust of men—and, given what she had revealed of her history, it was no wonder. He did think, however, that her degree of distrust might be troublesome. Outside of their lessons, Klara did not like to spend time around Giles; on evenings when Faith was patrolling or working her part-time job as a nightclub bouncer, Klara typically shut herself up in her room. And, try as he might to respect her personal space, she practically hissed when he accidentally came within three feet of her, and had once startled so badly that she had shoved him hard to the floor and cussed him out in some very colorful German. Surprisingly, it was Faith who intervened, giving Giles a hand up from the floor and demanding that Klara apologize—which she did, stonily. She had shut herself up in her room for the rest of the evening after that incident, and had emerged the next day for their morning lesson with an equally stony expression. The tension between them had not really ebbed since then.

Klara also displayed some troubling habits surrounding food. At mealtimes, she often ate rapaciously until she was nearly sick, and occasionally did throw up. Giles had also seen her sneaking various items of non-perishable food from the pantry: crackers, chocolate bars, granola bars, and, even, a few cans of beans. Giles was reminded of when they had found her in Germany, how she had been identified by her theft. He had yet to confront Klara about the stealing, and did not even know if he should; he didn’t much care about the missing food, but the act of stealing and secreting food itself was definitely troubling.

Even still, Giles was not deterred by these difficulties; neither, he was surprised to find, was Faith:

“She doesn’t really trust us,” Faith said to him one evening when Klara had gone off to bed. They were sitting in the den, and Faith was sprawling lazily in the chair that Klara typically occupied during lessons, flipping aimlessly through books. She had come in earlier, ostensibly to just bother Giles in his research; but they had ended up talking a little about Klara, her stand-offishness and her habits around food. Faith was leaning back in the chair, one long leg propped up on the desk and the other planted on the floor as she stared at the ceiling. “I mean, she definitely doesn’t trust you. She’s afraid of dudes, which is understandable. Guys are despicable—current company excepted.”

“Thank you,” Giles replied wryly, sipping from his tea.

“As for the stealing—she’s not doing it for selfish reasons, not because she _wants_ something; she’s stealing because she’s worried that her situation isn’t stable. Stealing food is way different than stealing, like—”

“A crossbow?” Giles supplied mildly.

Faith had stopped then, perking her head up to look over at him. “Buffy told you about that, huh?”

Giles paused. It was easy not to think of Buffy for the most part, during the day when he was occupied with tutoring Klara or doing various bits of research for his own purposes or for various associates-cum-clients. He kept himself deliberately occupied, trying to exhaust every last brain cell he had in pursuit of something that was _not_ Buffy; but, inevitably, she showed up, slipping easily in and out of conversations like a small ghost. His chest tightened at the mention of her name; sometimes he felt himself physically stiffen.

(He wondered if Faith noticed; or if she simply chose to ignore it.)

“She might have mentioned it.”

“Yeah. Well, anyway, Klara’s got _food insecurity_ ,” Faith said, and Giles could tell that she had recently heard the term. This was confirmed by her next sentence. “I was doing some surfin’ on the web—by the way, you should totally get a new computer, that thing is ancient— reading up about homelessness. I was never homeless myself, not really. I always managed to scam my way into a roof and a meal. But I read that it can do things to you, mentally, not knowing when you’re going to eat next. She’s got issues.”

“You’re quite right. And, I think, out of the two issues, the food insecurity should be the first thing we tackle.”

“How do you figure?”

Giles thought for a moment. “I may have some ideas.”

Faith tiled her head and gave him a surprisingly wicked grin. “So do I.”

-

That next morning, Giles was waiting for Klara at the breakfast table when she came downstairs. As per usual, she eyed him warily as she sat down at the kitchen table. Giles brought her a steaming plate of eggs and English muffin, accompanied with a glass of milk. Once he had set these items before her, he stood back and informed her:

“Instead of our typical morning lesson, I would like you to accompany me to the grocer. You can consider it a practical lesson in home economics.”

Klara’s eyes had widened a little, but she made no comment otherwise. She tucked into her breakfast while Giles had a cup of steaming earl grey. Then, they headed out in silence.

Giles typically did the shop by himself. Neither Faith nor Klara were picky eaters and didn’t care what kind of food he brought home, so he often took the weekly shop as a chance to get away and spend some time by himself (pathetic though that was). He typically alternated between supermarkets for no other reason than that it seemed prudent; today, he drove (with Klara stubbornly in the backseat) to a small chain grocer that was known for its superior produce.

Klara was, as per usual, silent as they exited his car and made their way into the store; try as she might to remain stoic, though, Giles noticed the way her eyes immediately began darting everywhere in the store, drawn by the bright colors and sumptuous looking fruits and vegetables.

Giles cleared his throat and removed a small, folded piece of paper from his pocket. He handed it to Klara, who took it gingerly.

“This is our list,” Giles said. “I’ll get a kart.”

Giles and Klara made their way through the produce like some kind of estranged couple; Klara, as per usual, kept at least three feet from Giles at all times and one might have mistaken them for being on entirely separate shopping trips were it not for Klara bringing items to Giles’ kart and depositing them. Mostly in silence, he let her select the potatoes, spinach, tomatoes, and zucchini on his list. Klara seemed to look over each vegetable very carefully, taking her time in selecting them before bringing them to Giles.

 _“Klara, do you know why I wanted you to come with me today?”_ Giles asked her in German as they moved past the produce.

Klara shook her head without looking at him. Her eyes were currently fixed on the large display of bread as they neared the bakery and delicatessen.

 _“I know that you struggle with food,”_ Giles said evenly. His tone was not conversational, nor was it accusatory. He pretended not to notice how Klara stiffened beside him and continued. _“And I want you to know that neither I, nor the Slayer Organization, will let you go hungry. Our first priority is, always, to fight evil. Our second priority is the health and safety of the Slayers.”_ He stopped as they rounded the corner into another aisle, this one containing breakfast foods. Reluctantly, Klara stopped too, and turned to look at him.

 _“I don’t need you to like me,”_ Giles told her seriously. _“It’s enough that you like Faith—and, I am hopeful that you will like the other Slayers you meet. I do, however, need you to trust that we will take care of you—and teach you to take care of yourself and others.”_ He paused as a middle-aged couple pushed past with their own kart, ignoring the curious looks they gave him and Klara.

He knew what this must look like: a father, having a somewhat intense conversation with his surly daughter. He waited a few more moments for the couple to move away, and for Klara to make some kind of response to his statement; but, by the time the couple was at the end of the aisle, Klara was still surveying him suspiciously. Giles sighed.

“Right. I am glad we had this heart-to-heart,” he said in his driest English, pushing the kart forward again. He gestured tiredly to the racks of cereals and snack foods. “Now, pick something.”

Klara looked up at him, confused. Then, back down at the little paper in her hands. “Pick something not on the list?”

“Yes. Pick something for you.”

Klara looked at the racks of food, then back at Giles, her green gaze suspicious and uncertain.

 _“The Slayer colonies are communal,”_ Giles told her, reverting back to German. _“Everything is shared, including food stores—much like our own home. Secreting or hoarding food from the communal store will not be looked upon kindly. However, if you want to select an item that is just for you, that no one else will eat, go ahead.”_

After a long moment, Klara reached forward and grabbed a value-pack of granola bars. She put them gently in the kart. Then, she looked up at him.

 _“Will I be able to do this in the Slayer colony?”_ she asked.

Giles nodded. _“You will have considerable freedom living there.”_ He began pushing the kart forward. _“Most of the Slayers have jobs—civilian jobs—for which they are paid. You are, of course, expected to contribute some of your income to the cause— to buy communal food and to keep the lights on— but what you do with the remainder of the money is up to you.”_ He looked at her. _“What is next on the list?”_

Klara looked down at the list that contained Giles’ cramped cursive handwriting. She was about to speak when Giles’ phone began to ring in his pocket.

Frowning, Giles reached into his back pocket and pulled out his mobile. _Faith_ , the caller ID told him. Faith never called him. His heartrate picked up pace as he answered the call.

She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. _“Are y’all at the store?”_ Faith’s voice sounded scratchy, as if she’d just finished having a smoke.

“Yes. Is something the matter?” Giles asked, trying not to sound too anxious as Klara was watching him intently.

_“Yeah. Can you get me some tampons?”_

Giles blinked and his mouth parted slightly. He felt his heart pick up a different pattern—not due to worry. He licked his lips and tried to think.

“I—erm, yes, but— I bought some?” he struggled through that response, his voice going higher than usual at end of that question. In a burst of foresight, he had picked up a few women’s products during the first week that Faith had come to live with him, anticipating that she and the Slayers they brought into their care would need them and would prefer not having to ask for them.

 _“Yeah, I saw that,”_ Faith replied. _“But you bought the variety pack—which, like, good on you, but between me and Klara, I don’t think the jumbo ones are gonna get used any time soon.”_

Despite himself, Giles felt himself flushing slightly. He glanced at Klara: she had tilted her head in interest, blonde ponytail listing to one side and green eyes—well, for once not surly, but curious. Giles swallowed and turned his attention back to Faith. “Uh, right, erm—what kind would you like then?”

_“Regular.”_

“Right. Any . . . particular brand?”

_“Nah. Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda cute when you get flustered?”_

Giles felt himself color even more at that comment. What he wanted to say was _I am not flustered_ but he felt that would only give credence to the accusation. “. . . once or twice.”

Faith gave a scratchy laugh. _“Get me a pack of Oreos, too? Or whatever the British equivalent is. Thanks.”_

Before he could make further comment, she hung up.

“What is it?” Klara asked in English.

Giles presumed that his face must have been a picture; little else would have prompted Klara to speak to him. He certainly had the horrible suspicion that his flush was noticeable, given the tiny flicker of amusement in Klara’s expression.

“Faith needs . . . a few things.” He cleared his throat. “Come along.”

They finished the rest of their shop in a silence that, for once, was almost companionable. Klara collected the rest of the items on their list, and Giles (miraculously) found a packet of Oreos in the aisle with biscuits. They probably weren't quite like the American ones, but they would do. Then, they headed towards the pharmacy.

Klara didn’t bother to ask what they needed until Giles was standing in front of the feminine products and family planning section, looking rather hopelessly at the assortment of products. He could feel an expression of helpless consternation growing on his face when Klara stepped up next to him.

“Faith needs tampons,” he said before she could ask. “I . . . I honestly have no idea which ones to pick.”

He was half expecting her to withdraw, to step back and give him a weird look—women, in his experience, preferred not to talk about such things with men, particularly men who were old enough to be their fathers. This was the main reason it had thrown him off when Faith so casually mentioned it. He had no compunctions about menstruation, but it was one of those things that women tended not to talk about in mixed gendered company. 

And, as someone who was clearly not a woman, he was presently at a loss. And probably embarrassing this poor teenager—

But, to his utter amazement, Klara snorted, reached passed him, and plucked a box off the shelf. She dropped it into the basket and wandered further along the aisle.

Looking after her in slight bewilderment, Giles followed.

When they returned home from the shop, Faith was waiting for them. She gave Giles a toothy grin and took her box of Oreos and tampons from him. “Thanks,” she said, “you’re a real doll.”

Giles made some kind of dry reply in response; he did not miss the grin that Klara tried to hide as she followed Faith out to the backyard for training.

-

After that, things with Klara gradually became easier. She was still somewhat skittish, but not surly. She began to ask Giles more questions in their morning lessons, and occasionally shared the living room with him in the evening in non-hostile silence. She did not return the food she had stored up in her room, but she refrained from taking anything else—save, of course, for her granola bars. Giles offered to teach her how to cook and bake, which she seemed very interested in. Their first experiment—shortbread cookies—had led to the both of them being covered in flour and confectioner’s sugar, while Faith snorted at them from the kitchen table.

Giles was also relieved to notice that Klara had gained a bit of weight. At least, she was starting to look less skeletal and more . . . naturally thin. Her cheeks did not look quite so hollow, and her green eyes looked less sunken in their sockets. Her combat skills were improving too; by her own admission, Faith was now working up a slight sweat during their sparring sessions. Klara had also started to teach Faith to swear in German.

Klara was, by no means, completely rehabilitated—the psychological harm that had been done to her by her family and her living situation would take years to properly heal—but Giles saw that she was becoming more easy around him, and Faith as well. It gave him a small sense of hope.

-

Two-and-a-half weeks into Klara’s stay, Faith suggested that it was time to take Klara on patrol.

“I think she’s ready,” Faith said. They were in the kitchen where Giles was doing the washing up after dinner; Faith and Klara had been in the living room, watching some horrible television and sipping beer, when Faith had apparently gotten up and wandered in, leaned her hip against the counter, and brought the subject up.

Giles, shirtsleeves rolled up and elbow-deep in suds, considered Faith evenly. He paused in his scrubbing and withdrew one of his hands, bracing it against the sink. “Are you sure?” he asked. “She’s been training only a fortnight. And she’s still . . .” he searched for an appropriate term, “. . . undernourished.”

He noticed Faith’s gaze flicker from his face down to his forearm and then back up again. She pursed her full lips slightly and nodded. “Yeah, I get that. But I was a Slayer for like three hours before I had to dust my first vamp. The sooner she gets exposed, the better. She’s a scrappy fighter, and I’ll be with her the whole time.” She paused. “We agreed that we weren’t going to house them for long. She needs to get ready to join a Slayer squad.”

Giles considered for a moment; then, he nodded. “All right, then. Discuss it with Klara and let me know which night you will be taking her.”

Faith’s brow wrinkled in slight confusion. “That’s it? I was kinda expecting more pushback.”

Giles sighed, removing his other hand from the sink and wiping both hands on a dishtowel. Faith’s eyes moved to his forearms again, not quite as briefly as the first time. He waited until she was looking him directly in the face before answering.

“I trust your judgement, Faith. If you say she’s ready, then she’s ready.”

The look that had crossed Faith’s face was so fleeting that Giles wasn’t entirely sure how to describe it. Perhaps it was something like astonishment; perhaps like gratitude; perhaps it was something softer and more vulnerable than both of those feelings.

Perhaps he was imagining things.

-

Faith took Klara on patrol that Friday.

Faith had the night off from the club; she proposed that she and Klara hit the town, and “make trouble” (which had caused Klara to go slightly wide-eyed). Giles watched them leave, something like apprehension twisting in his stomach. _They would be fine_ , he told himself. Faith was deadly even on a bad day, and Klara was showing herself to be a more-than-competent fighter. _They would be fine. They would be fine._

He did not originally intend to wait up for them; but, when he still found himself puttering about the house at eleven, not the least bit sleepy and having made no preparations for bed, he decided he might as well wait until their return.

They got back around one-thirty. Around midnight he had picked up his acoustic guitar—it was the first time he’d touched the thing since Faith moved in— and started playing simply melodies, getting his hands used to the instrument again, glad for some way to expend his nervous energy. He had just descended into aimlessly plucking cords when he heard a jangle of keys before one was inserted into the lock on the front door. He practically leapt up, leaving his guitar on the couch, and padded in socked feet to meet them, heart pounding—

He was greeted by Faith’s radiant smile. Something in his chest eased.

“Dude, she freakin’ killed it!” Faith said. She looked then at Klara, who was standing behind her almost sheepishly. “You were awesome.”

Klara moved into the house as well, shrugging off her jacket. She didn’t reply, merely gave Faith a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m very glad that it went well and that you both are all right,” Giles heard himself say. Faith was obviously genuinely excited about Klara’s success, but Klara did not seem to share the sentiment. Giles couldn’t see evidence of any damage done to her, but he nonetheless sensed that she was shaken—even if she was trying to hide if form Faith.

Speaking to Klara, Giles said, “You must be tired. Would you like anything to eat before retiring?” He wasn’t sure if offering her food was the right thing to do; he knew that food was a comfort to her, but he also didn’t want to encourage her using it as a kind of crutch.

Klara shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll just got to bed.” She turned to Faith and seemed to muster up a real smile. “Thanks for tonight.”

Faith smiled at her. “Yeah, get some beauty sleep, _Höllenkatze_.”

Once Klara had moved past Giles (giving him not quite as wide a berth as she would have in the past) and trod up the stairs, the smile slid off Faith’s face. She did not look quite concerned, but thoughtful.

“She did really well, G,” Faith said softly. “We had one vamp at first—she dusted that one fine. But I think the second round shook her a bit: three vamps dropped in on us at once in a small alleyway. She fought like hell.”

“ _Höllenkatze,”_ Giles repeated softly.

“Yeah.” Faith chewed her bottom lip and then directed her gaze upstairs, where the soft sounds of padded feet could be heard as Klara got ready for bed. “She was physically ready; I didn’t think about whether she was. . . .”

“Psychologically ready?”

“Yeah.”

Giles nodded. “In my long experience, I don’t know that anything can make a person psychologically ready to face down a demon, Slayer or no.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Faith began shrugging out of her leather jacket. Giles thought he heard her give a sigh. “Anyway, I’m beat, and I need a smoke.” She pulled a somewhat squashed pack out of her jacket pocket, along with a lighter. She began to head towards the door leading to the backyard when she suddenly stopped, turning to look at the sofa. Her eyes landed on his guitar. 

“You play?”

Giles raised his eyebrows, a little startled. “I—well, a little. I was waiting up for you and—and needed something to do with my hands,” he finished, somewhat lamely.

He waited for her to make fun of him, the way Buffy would have: Washed up old school rocker, now crooning over an acoustic guitar. But Faith simply said, “huh” and, then, as she opened the back door, said:

“I wanna hear you sometime.”

Before he could respond or protest, she had slipped through the back door and closed it behind her.

-

Giles woke up that next morning to the smell of something burning.

His eyes flashed open. _Faith,_ he thought immediately, _her blasted smoking had burned the bloody house down._ Throwing himself out of bed, he grabbed his glasses from the bedside table, shoved them on, and rushed down the stairs two at a time, skidding into the kitchen—

And found Klara there, standing at the stove.

She jumped visibly at his entrance, almost like a startled cat. Her wide green eyes took in his rumpled appearance and some of the alarm drained from her. She moved back towards the stove, where she removed a piece of charred bacon from the skillet and then turned on the stove fan.

“Sorry,” she said. “I . . . wanted to make breakfast and I got . . . distracted.”

Giles, taking in a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair. “That’s quite all right.” He removed his glasses and wiped a hand across his face. Lord, he was still half-asleep. “No harm, ah, no foul.” And the fire alarm hadn’t even gone off. What a miracle.

As Giles replaced his glasses and waited for his heart to stop hammering, Klara tossed the burnt bacon and transferred two fresh strips from the package to the skillet.

“What are you making?” Giles asked.

“Speckpfannkuchen,” Klara responded. Giles noticed then the assortment of various items around her, including a bag of flour and a carton of eggs. 

“Ah. Do you . . . need any help?”

“No.”

He paused. “Do you mind if I make coffee?”

Klara shook her head.

So, Giles moved silently around the kitchen, making coffee in the French press while Klara continued to prepare breakfast. She was very focused on her task, but there was plainly something on her mind.

 _“I don’t know if I am made for this,”_ Klara said in German. Her voice sounded thick, as though she were trying not to cry, but her blonde hair fell in a curtain hiding her face.

 _“What do you mean?”_ Giles asked gently.

 _“When Faith and I went on patrol last night . . . I did not . . . I wasn’t . . .”_ Klara chewed her lip. _“Faith seemed so . . . enlivened by it. Thrilled. Like she enjoyed slaying.”_ She looked glumly down at the pancake she was cooking. _“I didn’t feel that.”_

_“What did you feel?”_

_“Scared.”_

Giles considered her for a moment. Looking at Klara then, in her too-big pajamas hanging off her short, skinny frame, he was unable to escape the thought that she reminded him of Buffy.

Giles had noticed this very early on, though he had mainly ignored it. Klara had some obvious superficial physical similarities to Buffy: blonde hair, green eyes, dimples. Even, sometimes, the way she held herself was reminiscent of Buffy. But it was more than that: she had the same kind of steeliness that Buffy sometimes adopted, the same determination. And, now, he saw the same self-doubt, the same uneasiness with her destiny.

In the beginning, with Buffy, he had felt sympathetic towards her. Then, as time wore on, he ached for her, and his ache grew into anguish at every new ordeal she suffered. By the end, he had desperately wished that he could her pain, her doubt, her fear away from her, that he could give her the normal life that she craved. He had wished to let her live in peace. He would have done _anything_ to give her that—even if it meant never seeing her again. His love for Buffy would have made him do that readily.

Now, though, with Klara, his emotions were not so fraught; he knew that such wishing wasn’t rational, wasn’t _helpful._ Now, he was able to see clearly, to come to the conclusion and course of action that had taken him much longer to re-learn with Buffy: The best that he could do for her was to help her find her own strength, to help her feel confident in herself and her abilities. The best he could do for her was to tell her that it was all right. 

_“Klara, it is completely natural to feel scared. Every fight with evil is a fight for your life and your soul. Faith said you did exceptionally well, and I believe her. I also believe that your fear may have helped you in that capacity. It will continue to do so.”_

Klara nodded, flipping over one of the thin pancakes. _“I’ve seen them before. Vampires. But, before, I just ran. Having to stay and fight was very different. I . . . I didn’t want Faith to know how scared I was.”_ She looked up at him then. _“Faith is fearless.”_

Giles could not help the soft smile that made its way to his lips, and he slowly shook his head. _“Not true. Faith’s fear simply comes from different places.”_

_“What is Faith afraid of?”_

Just then, Giles heard the light clatter and thunk of movement from upstairs. “ _It isn’t my place to tell you,”_ he replied _. “If you want to know, you should probably ask her yourself. I can tell you with certainty that she will not think less of you for your fear. And it will get easier, Klara. The most you are able to use your skills and powers, the more you will trust them to keep you alive.”_

Klara looked up at him from her task at the stove, her green eyes boring questioningly into his. There was something else there, too, something that looked like hope—and gratitude.

Giles gave her another small smile before returning to the coffee.

By the time Giles had prepared three steaming cups of coffee and Klara had plated three heaping portions of Speckpfannkuchen, Faith was plodding downstairs. She entered the kitchen dressed in soft black sweatpants, and a grey t-shirt that—christ, did Giles leave _all_ of his old band shirts in Faith’s room, or was she just nicking them now?

“Mornin’ folks,” Faith greeted, slinking into one of the kitchen chairs and sprawling. She noticed Giles staring at her and cocked an eyebrow. “See something you like, Giles?”

He gave he a scowl that had no heat behind it, looking at the _Grateful Dead_ shirt she was wearing. “That’s my shirt.”

Faith didn’t even bother to look chagrinned, just winked at him. “We can wrastle for it after breakfast.” She looked down as Klara set a plate before her. “This looks delish. What is it?”

“ _Speckpfannkuchen_.”

“Gesundheit.”

Klara gave a small giggle and sat down next to Faith. She began to teach Faith how to pronounce it properly while Giles brought to the table coffee, cream, and sugar. He took his customary seat across from Klara and beside Faith, content to merely tuck in while the two women talked. Sunlight was streaming in through the kitchen window, illuminating the steam rising off the food, catching the blonde of Klara’s hair and the warm brown of Faith’s eyes. It was a picturesque moment, the two of them talking and laughing and enjoying the morning. For once, everything felt right in the world, and his heart felt at peace.

He knew it would not last. Soon, breakfast would be over, and morning with it. Soon, Klara would leave them for the Slayer colony. Soon, he would be back where he was before: hoping to find purpose in helping others and feeling adrift in all the moments that he let himself think of what he had left to get here. _Who_ he had left.

No, this moment would not last; but, for the present, he would enjoy it as best he could.


	2. Scotland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What about you, though? You’re quite the fatherly figure.”
> 
> “Thank you,” he replied drily, wondering how he had gotten himself into this conversation.
> 
> “No, no, c’mon. It’s sexy. You’re very ‘daddy’.”
> 
> “Please never say that again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not edit this chapter, this is hot off the insomniatic press, you are welcome. I decided to break this last chapter into two, so there will be a shorter 3rd chapter to follow this.

As the weeks wore on, Klara steadily became stronger and more confident. She went regularly with Faith on patrol and came back looking more and more settled each time. The fear was still there, Giles could see, but she was beginning to use it to her advantage rather than allowing it to plague her. It helped that she was gaining in muscle and skills, thanks in large part due to Giles’ efforts at her nutrition and Faith’s diligence with her combat training.

Her other issues, too, seemed to begin to resolve more fully. She began to eat her meals more slowly, not devouring everything as if it would run away from her. She continued to refrain from stealing or secreting more food from the pantry; she still took comfort in her weekly box of granola bars, but even there she was becoming more lax. Giles had been surprised when Faith, upon returning from patrol with Klara, told him that she had been offered a granola bar by Klara as they were walking around the city.

Klara’s attitude towards Giles improved significantly as well. After their heart-to-heart in the kitchen after that first patrol, Klara seemed to have come to the conclusion that Giles was, as Faith put it, “an all right dude”. She was still very quiet and exhibited steeliness in her lessons; but outside of training, she became more relaxed around him. They had even spent one evening on opposite ends of the long couch watching _Murder by Death_ while Faith was working at the club.

Things were beginning to feel almost settled when, at the end of the five-week mark, Giles got a phone call.

He was in the kitchen, cleaning up from lunch (he had a dishwasher, which he occasionally used, but there was something very soothing about washing dishes by hand). He had wrapped up his lessons with Klara and taken lunch with her; Faith, who had gone patrolling until late last night, and did not make an appearance at lunch. Giles wasn’t worried, as she sometimes slept late and she had never missed the start of Klara’s training; she was allowed some leeway. So, after lunch, Giles had advised Klara to go warm-up in the backyard while waiting for Faith to come down.

Giles was just contemplating the relatively danger of going to knock on Faith’s door when his mobile phone rang.

He quickly removed his hands from the dishes and dried them, pulling his mobile out of his pocket. Giles eyes widened when he saw the caller ID, and his heartrate spiked. He picked up on the third ring.

“Buffy.”

_“Giles.”_

He opened his mouth, but no words came forth. He had no idea what to say to her. The last time they had spoken, she had been furious with him. That had been nearly three months ago. Giles listened helplessly to the buzz of silence over the line.

On the other end, he heard Buffy sigh. _“Look, this is awkward, and I don’t want to get into it right now, but I hear you have a Slayer with you.”_

He tried not to think of how tired she sounded, how stressed. “We do.”

He could tell that the “we” struck some kind of nerve with Buffy, but she brushed past it. _“I’m calling to ask if she’s ready to join. We have an op coming up and need as many hands as we can get.”_

“How soon?”

_“As soon as possible. Willow can set up a teleportation point whenever you’re ready.”_

“I’ll need to discuss it with her. You’ll hear back from me by tomorrow at the latest.”

 _“Thanks.”_ Click. 

He had not quite been prepared for that abrupt end to the conversation. It left him feeling suddenly bereft, like his breath had been taken from him without warning. He noticed that his heart was still beating relatively fast, and he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths until it slowed. He looked up and out through the kitchen window to the backyard: Klara was running a mini-obstacle course, blonde hair flying in the sunshine. Should he tell her now?

Almost as if in a trance, he abandoned the dishes and left the kitchen. He wandered into the living room, passing the couch and comfy chair, heading towards the door leading to the backyard when he heard a groan.

Startled, he whipped around—and saw Faith.

She was lying on the couch in a half-curled position, one hand over her stomach, eyes closed. Was she hurt? This immediate worry brought him a step closer to the couch but, taking her in again, he saw that she was not dressed in last night’s clothes; rather, she was wearing the soft black sweatpants she normally wore to bed. He also couldn’t see evidence of an injury on her. Was she hungover? Sick?

As he watched, her brows knit together and her mouth parted. She gave another, much smaller and nearly pathetic-sounding groan.

Momentarily distracted, Giles approached the couch. “Faith?”

Faith did not open her eyes. “Nope. Not home.”

He took another step towards the couch. “Are you all right?”

Faith huffed and then groaned, rolling over so that she was laying on her back, arms folded over her abdomen. “I’m fine. It’s Shark Week.”

Giles’ brow knit in confusion; the television show? “I’m not sure I—”

“I’m on my period.”

His eyebrows rose. “Ah.” That would explain why they hadn’t seen her—that is, not the time of the month itself, but the physical repercussions.

“Yeap,” she replied, still without opening her eyes. “Turns out that sometimes major Slayer muscles means major Slayer cramps—owwww.” She groaned again, presumably as another cramp hit her full force.

Period cramps. An issue so antithetical to his current dilemma. Here he was, trying to regain his equilibrium after a tense conversation with the woman whom he . . . and then there was Faith, whose predominant concern right now was the physical, but perfectly mundane, pain she was experiencing. Giles welcomed the quotidian distraction; he shifted from Giles into what the Scoobies used to call Watcher ModeTM.

“Wait here.”

“Not going anywhere,” Faith called after him as he left the living room and went into the kitchen. He filled the electric kettle and set it to boil, after which he rummaged around in the first-aid cabinet they kept in the kitchen. He pulled out a bottle of paracetamol and a thick rubber water bottle. The bustling about grounded him, menial and skill-less though it was. He waited until the kettle had boiled and turned off before calling out from the kitchen:

“Does this happen often?”

He faintly heard Faith snort before replying: “That’s kinda the nature of periods, G. They come once a month.”

Giles rolled his eyes, rustling about for a soft cloth towel and a glass of water. “I’m aware, I just meant . . . well, I haven’t seen you this affected before. I was inquiring whether this level of discomfort was normal for you.”

He heard Faith blow a raspberry through her lips. “Nah, I don’t always cramp bad. It’s usually just mildly uncomfortable. But, when I do, I usually keep to myself or have a few stiff ones to cut the pain—or both. Chain smoking also works.”

Giles did his best not to be horrified. He poked his head out of the kitchen and into the living room. From this angle, he could only see the back of the couch and the crown of her head. “You’d do better to take a paracetamol. Or a warm bath.”

At that, Faith sat up a little more so that she could look at him properly from over the back of the couch. Her expression was sour. “Wow, thanks for mansplaining that to me. When did you grow a vagina and become an expert?”

Giles grimaced; right. That hadn’t been the smoothest or least patronizing line. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean. . . . I was a Watcher, Faith. My job was to train a young woman destined to fight the forces of darkness. We were given instruction about such things—and to treat them as facts of life. Hold on.” He returned to the kitchen where he poured the cooling water into the water bottle, sealed it tight, and wrapped it in a soft kitchen towel. He considered the glass of water and the paracetamol he had gotten out; he somehow didn’t think that Faith would take it, after that comment.

In any case, he felt a headache coming on. He took the pill and water himself, putting the paracetamol bottle back in the cabinet. He then checked hot water bottle and tested it to make sure it wasn’t too hot before bringing it out to Faith. “Here,” he said, handing it to her.

Faith’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise—and, then, her face softened in a way he had seldom seen. The flicker of softness quickly morphed into something more cynical and protective. She gave him a lopsided smile. “Aww, G. That’s real sweet of you.” She took the bottle from him, and settled it on her abdomen. She then cocked an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you were that in-tuned to Buffy.”

The mention of Buffy’s name seemed like an especially sharp jab, after the encounter her had just had. However, Giles brushed past it, walking over to take a seat in the comfy chair catty-corner to the couch. He sank into it with a muffled groan. “I wasn’t. But, as I said, it’s a fact of life, of which I am well-aware. Besides, I have lived with women before.” In a self-comforting move, he took off his glasses, removed a white handkerchief from his pocket, and began to clean them needlessly.

Faith watched him through half-closed eyes. “No foolin’. Weren’t you once the only grown man in a henhouse full of Potentials?”

The use of the word “henhouse” to describe the temporary living space of a bunch of mostly-teenagers was disturbing to him, but he let it slide. “Xander was there,” he reminded her.

“I said grown man.”

“Fair point.”

He replaced his glasses and the room came back into focus. He saw that Faith was no longer watching him, but tilting her head back against the couch arm, eye closed. He could see the tension in her face, the slight pursing of her mouth into a pout. Giles thought then that she looked pitiful in a way that was almost cute—and then immediately back-tracked the thought, knowing that if Faith even caught a whiff of it she would deck him, menstrual cramps or no.

“Ugh,” Faith groaned again after a moment of silence. “Fuck. Why couldn’t the malevolent assholes who gave us powers also give us freedom from periods? Seriously, just tie my tubes. Not like most Slayers need em. _I_ certainly don’t.”

He didn’t bother to try explaining that what she was looking for was a hysterectomy, not tubal litigation. He was too distracted, in any case, his thoughts drifting back to his conversation with Buffy. She had sounded still so terse—not quite hostile, but close enough. It surprised him more than it ought have. Thoughtlessly, Giles found himself participating in his conversation with Faith as though directing himself from another room. “You really have no interest in . . . procreating?”

“Why, you offering?”

Giles blinked. _That_ had got his attention. He glanced over and saw that there was a feline grin gracing Faith’s features and her left eyebrow was half-cocked. Giles felt himself immediately begin to flush and floundered: “That’s not what I—”

Taking pity on him, Faith laughed. “Relax, G. And, nah. I’m not really the mothering type, you know. Doesn’t really suit my lifestyle.”

Giles nodded, faintly. “Point taken.”

Faith shifted on the couch and gave him what he could only describe as an appreciative appraisal. “What about you, though? You’re quite the fatherly figure.”

“Thank you,” he replied drily, wondering how he had gotten himself into this conversation.

“No, no, c’mon. It’s sexy. You’re very ‘daddy’.”

“Please never say that again.” He gave a great sigh. “In any case, I have too many surrogate children to ever think of having one of my own.” In a futile move, he removed his glasses again and rubbed his face with his right hand. Christ, he felt like he needed a stiff drink.

“What’s wrong?” Faith asked.

Well. There was no avoiding it, really.

“Buffy called.”

Faith’s demeanor changed instantly and completely at those words. She stiffened, pushed herself up so that she was sitting up at the end of the couch. Her eyes, normally a warm, rich brown, seemed to darken and harden. “What’s Queen B want?”

“She asked for Klara to join the Slayer squad in Scotland.”

Faith was silent for a moment. “Well, I guess it’s about time,” she finally said, although the statement sounded forced.

“I agree,” Giles said firmly. “I told Buffy we would talk to Klara about it.”

Faith turned her head away from him, looking instead out the window to the backyard. She watched Klara, who was now practicing some tumbling maneuvers. “She’s just starting to get so good though,” Faith said quietly.

“And she will get better living in the Slayer colony.”

Faith chewed her lower lip. “Yeah. I guess, I just . . .”

She was right, Giles reflected. It was, ever, his role to play the father figure; even in the face of his own emotional anguish, he found himself putting Faith’s first. Perhaps it was due to natural inclination; perhaps it was simply easier than confronting his own.

Whatever the case, he slowly stood up and walked around to Faith’s side of the couch. Cautiously, he rested a hand gently on her shoulder. She did not shrug him off or hit him; merely looked up at him, brown eyes questioning.

“It’s what is best for her, Faith.” 

-

That evening, at dinner, Giles gently brought them around to the subject.

He did it as they sat down to their meal, not wanting Klara to feel like he had tried to bury the lead. She listened raptly as he explained that Buffy Summers had called and was requesting her to join the Scotland Slayer squad. He told her that she still had a choice with regards to fulfilling her destiny; he was not at all surprised when she quietly but firmly responded that she wanted to go.

“It’s decided, then,” Giles said, keeping his voice light. “I’ll contact the base and let them know to expect you.”

He gave Klara an encouraging smile, which she slowly returned. Though he kept his focus on Klara as she meandered into a series of questions about the Slayer Organization, he could not help but notice Faith out of the corner of his eye. During that entire exchange with Klara, Faith’s face had been neutral, calm; but now, a cloudier, darker expression had taken over, and she pushed her food moodily around her plate. They were halfway through dinner before she came round to talking again.

-

Giles called Willow to arrange the transport. He had originally planned to take Klara the non-magic way, but Willow insisted that opening a small portal would be safer and easier—presuming he would not mind doing a little legwork on his side as well. Somewhat reluctantly, Giles agreed. He did, however, insist on coming with Klara, and staying for a few days while Klara settled.

Willow had been somewhat surprised at that. _“You, uh, sure, Giles?”_ She had asked him over the phone. _“I mean, we have plenty of space to put you up, but . . .”_

“I’m sure. I want to make sure that Klara settles in.”

So, it was decided. Wednesday evening before their departure the next morning, Giles and Klara both packed. Giles packed for three days; Klara packed every little last thing she owned. It did not amount to much: about a week’s worth of clothes, toiletries. Giles had bought her a trunk when she first moved in, and everything fit with plenty of room to spare. She had no personal trinkets to speak of—save, he discovered, for several boxes of granola bars. When she saw Giles looking at them, Klara answered his unasked question:

“I did not hoard these. Faith brought them to me yesterday. A ‘going away present’, she said.”

That next morning after breakfast, he and Klara took their belongings outside to the back garden, Faith trailing behind them. In the north corner of the yard, there was a dense patch of low shrubbery that Giles never bothered to trim; it surrounded a small stone patio, ostensibly meant for lounging but never used. Last night, following Willow’s instructions, he had created a salt circle with a small opening and several sigils drawn inside in white chalk. While Faith stood back, Giles led Klara into the circle and directed her where to stand. He then took up the container of salt he had left out and closed the circle, after which he moved to stand beside Klara.

Faith stood back, watching them wordlessly. Though it was chilly out, she was only wearing a light, oversized sweater over a t-shirt and ripped jeans. She was also barefoot, even though the grass beneath their feet was cold and dewy. She stood with her arms crossed, though her expression was neutral—or, as neutral as she could manage.

“Y’all have fun now,” she drawled. To Klara she said, “Good luck and give ‘em hell.”

Klara smiled, both pleased and nervous. She nodded. _“Auf wiedersehen, Faith.”_

Faith smiled; then, she turned her gaze back to Giles.

“I’ll be back in three days,” Giles told her, just before he felt the magic take them.

-

It was not at all surprising to Giles that Willow was the only one to greet them when they arrived.

He and Klara materialized on a large, open stone terrace. One the light from the magick cleared, Giles looked up to see Willow lowering her hands and smiling at him.

“Giles,” she greeted, stepping forward. Her hair was a bit longer than when he had last seen her, and her smile, though genuine, held signs of strain. She looked first at him and then her green eyes slid down to the slightly shorter form of his companion. “And this must be Klara . . .” Willow grimaced apologetically. “Agh, I’m sorry, I’m trying to get better at teleportation but I know it can be a bit, uh, ‘yikes’ if you haven’t done it before.”

In that moment, Giles felt something—which he had not noticed until that moment—uncinch from his arm and he realized that, sometime during the teleportation process, Klara had grabbed onto it. He looked down at her and saw that she had the brittle look of someone who was freaked out but trying to play it cool. Gingerly, Giles, raised his now-free arm and laid a hand lightly on Klara’s shoulder; it was meant to be a reassuring gesture, and he was relieved when she didn’t swipe at him or shake him off.

“Yes. This is Klara Sommer.”

Willow smiled again, bright and genuine. “We’re glad to have you.”

Willow led them back through the castle and explained that she would take them to their rooms. The castle was fairly quiet, save for the distant sounds of clashing in the crumbling courtyard; Willow related that most of the Slayers, save for the very new, were out on a training run led by Buffy and would not be back until the next morning. This she said with some trepidation, glancing over at Giles.

He understood perfectly well the implication of that; Buffy, knowing that he would be bringing Klara today, had purposely taken herself out of the picture for his arrival. Was it because she wanted to see him as little as possible during his stay? Or did she simply want to give him space to get Klara settled? Both of these scenarios had one main thing in common: She was avoiding him. And she was still angry.

He tried not to let his hurt or discomfort show on his face. He was glad to see Willow again, and he engaged her in conversation as they took Klara to her room. She told him of the goings-on of the Slayer Organization, new magicks she was learning, updated him on the situation with Dawn, and told him she was still keeping an eye out for rogue Slayers for him. The shop talk was soothing, in its way, and he let her carrying on with it as they took Klara to her new room.

-

Once they had deposited Klara things in her room—which she was sharing with a roommate, another new Slayer named Yiyun—they took her to the courtyard to meet the other neophytes who had not the experience to go on the training mission with Buffy. Giles hung back while Willow introduced Klara to the gathered group of Slayers and Watchers, and was relieved to see her smile at them in greeting. She did glance back at him once or twice, and he gave her his own encouraging smile and nod. He watched as Willow brought over Yiyun and introduced the two; they both seemed very shy, but perhaps that was for the best. As the Slayers milled around, talking, Willow drifted back over to Giles.

“Xander’s around here somewhere,” she told him. “He’d like to see you. Dawn too.”

Giles smiled, pleased at the thought. “I would like that as well. But perhaps this afternoon or evening? I’d like to walk the castle and visit the library; there is a reference I believe you have here that is of interest.”

Willow nodded. “Sure thing. I’m going to have to pop out—there’s apparently a weak spot in the perimeter that I need to check— but I’ll get the gang and meet up with you later.”

With that, Willow sauntered off into the castle once more, green skirt flowing behind her. After watching her disappear through the great double doors that had led out of the courtyard, Giles turned back to the group of Slayers; they were now dispersing from their gaggle and taking up positions about six feet apart from each other. A young man—a Watcher that Giles had trained before leaving— began leading them through some kung-fu techniques. Giles watched them for a time, pacing a little around the courtyard and keeping a close eye on Klara; she seemed to be keeping up well. The look of determination on her face was familiar to Giles, and it replaced the uncertainty that had lingered there before. He had the sudden and sure premonition that she would do just fine here, and felt a small surge of pride. He wished that Faith could see this.

After about an hour, the Slayers all took a water break; during this time, Klara broke away from the group and gingerly approached Giles. As she drew closer, he could see the beginnings of a fine sheen of sweat forming at her temples.

“Invigorated?” he ask congenially. “You were doing well.”

Klara nodded. _“The girls seem nice,”_ she said quietly in German.

_“Most of them are; it’s important that you bond with at least some of them.”_

She nodded again. _“Are you going to stay and watch more?”_ she asked.

Giles shook his head. _“No. I am going to have a walkabout, see some old friends—and let you get acquainted with everyone. I’ll see you later, though.”_

Klara looked reassured by this. “OK.”

After that, Klara wandered back over to the group and Giles turned and headed back inside. He was worried, for a moment, that he would not remember his way around the sprawling stone; however, he found that it was all readily familiar to him, almost as if he had never left.

It was both wistful and somewhat painful to think of the days when he, too, lived here among them all. He remembered the early days of the Slayer Organization, of Buffy scrambling to assert her leadership, to figure out logistics of running such a large organization, taking care of all of these people. She had relied on him a good bit in the beginning; he was one of the few Watchers left and, though he had never been given the instruction to train a Slayer army, he knew the most about the pedagogy of training than any of them. He’d helped Buffy establish order, had helped her train the first-comers, had taken several young Watchers under his wing. He remembered hurried conversations with Buffy as they walked through the hallways, always about strategy, about tactics, about organization. He remembered how she came to him often for advice, and how she had asked him to continue her training—which, he soon realized, was partially a move to get away from her responsibilities for an hour, to seek shelter in the physical, in his own familiar and comforting presence. Those were his favorite moments: training with her alone, pushing her physical limits, taking charge and letter the burden of leadership and control fall from her stronger shoulders. There were times when she had smiled at him and he—

Giles abruptly turned the thought away. There was no place for that, not here nor anywhere. There probably never would be. He had accepted that in theory, if not in fact.

He eventually made his way over to the large library, which was blessedly empty at this time of day. It was very “Beauty and the Beast” as Willow had described it, shelves going up at least two stories, a few rolling ladders in various places. When they had moved into the castle, the shelves had been half-bare; now, they were beginning to fill—mainly with books on magick, demonology, mythology, the works. Giles wondered if anyone had undertaken the gargantuan task of filing and organizing— and was relieved to find a ledger on the front table, as well as labels on many of the shelves. This must have been Willow’s doing, as he could not imagine anyone else taking such pains.

He spent the better part of the afternoon browsing through the shelves, pulling down a few books on magical artefacts and taking them to one of several large desks to read. Merrick, his old colleague at the British Museum, occasionally came across rare and mystical artefacts that he enlisted Giles to help him identify (with cash consent). As such, he found it useful to keep himself well-read. He was flipping through an interesting tome on Mesopotamian magicks when he heard the door to the library creak open.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the OG Watcher.”

Giles looked up to see Xander striding towards him, a wide grin on his face. Willow trailed behind him, a few nervous twitches short of actually happy. Giles stood, abandoning his books to greet the younger man.

“Xander,” he said, holding out his hand. Xander reached for it, and then pulled Giles in for a hug which caught Giles slightly by surprise.

“Man, is it good to lay eyes—well, in my case, eye—on you,” Xander said, pulling back and appraising Giles with said eye. “It feels like it’s been _ages.”_

“It’s only been a few months—oh,” Giles finished in surprise as Willow moved in to hug him as well.

“I didn’t get to say hello properly earlier,” Willow said, stepping back. “Didn’t want to embarrass you in front of Klara.”

“Don’t be silly.” He was about to say that he had already been sufficiently embarrassed in front of her, but thought better of it. “How have you both been?”

They moved over to the library table where Giles had been and each drew out a chair. Xander plopped into his unceremoniously, much has he had done as a high schooler in the Sunnydale library. Though he knew that Xander—like the rest of them—was now in his mid-twenties, he still seemed terribly young to Giles. But perhaps that was immaturity.

“Oh, real dandy,” Xander answered. “You know, training Slayer, watching the Slayage, battling demons. It’s all old hat now.”

“You got turned into a Erutow demon last week,” Willow reminded him. “That wasn’t exactly old hat.”

“No, but we don’t talk about that,” Xander said, waving away the story before Giles could ask. “Seriously, we don’t, it was embarrassing. But, anyway, how about you? What’s it like living on the wild side with Little Miss Sunshine?”

Giles could not help but bristle; he knew the conversation would come around to this eventually, but had hoped for a longer overture of idle pleasantries. He glanced over to see that Willow looked a little nervous.

“Not wild, I’m afraid,” Giles returned evenly. “She’s been a great benefit, actually; she helped train the Slayer I brought with me today.”

“So, you two are actually all under one roof?” Willow asked, leaning forward. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

Giles tried not to frown. “She’s surprisingly easy to live with— we mostly just stay out of each other’s way.” He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d said that; it wasn’t totally untrue, and certainly had been the case in the beginning. Two-and-a-half months into their arrangement, they were not exactly bosom buddies—but they did appreciate each other’s company, more than he thought was possible for Faith. More, too, than anyone else probably thought was possible. Giles realized that he was not quite ready to share that piece of information yet.

Xander blinked his one eye, looking surprised. “Really? You mean you’re not . . .” he trailed off just as Willow shot him an uneasy look. It made Giles instantly wary.

“What?” he asked.

“Uh, you know . . . what’s the proper, refined, British way to say it—shagging?”

Across the table, Willow colored slightly and Xander cocked the eyebrow above his eyepatch. Giles, for his part, blinked. Then, he blinked again. _What?_ “No. We have a professional relationship,” he said eventually, trying to rein in his disbelief that he had just been asked such an impertinent (and personal) question. Wait a moment—did they? Did Buffy—? “Is that—is that what you all think?”

Xander, far from being chagrinned, replied, “Well, we might have put two and two together and come up with a reasonable number.”

“And she always did, you know, fancy you,” Willow piped up.

Giles had been about to respond to Xander’s comment, but that stopped him in his tracks. He raised an eyebrow at Willow. “I beg your pardon?”

But Xander came to her rescue. “Oh yeah. When she first came to Sunnydale she made a pass at you, remember?”

From somewhere deep within the transom of Giles’ mind, a phrase floated back to him, crystal clear: _If I had known they came that young and cute, I would have requested a transfer._ He shook his head, as if to clear it.

“Xander, your mind is like a steel trap for the most useless knowledge.”

Xander grinned, unabashed. “It’s a skill. So, definitely not sleeping together?”

“Emphatically not. You can all rest easy knowing that my virtue is intact.” He immediately wanted to take back that last sentence; somehow, it didn’t seem fair to Faith, though he doubted she would care. He shifted in his seat. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Sure,” said Xander gamely. “We can talk about how much Buff flipped out when she found out y’all were working together.”

Willow shot him a look. “Xander—!”

Xander shook his head, face growing oddly serious. It was never a good thing to see Xander dispense with the colorful and insouciant façade; in Giles experience, this only happened when the situation was especially grim. “It wasn’t good, Giles. I haven’t seen her that upset since . . . I don’t know, since the last time she had a fight with Angel—which admittedly has been a while because they haven’t seen each other.”

Giles would admit to a certain sense of satisfaction in that—the idea that Angel and Buffy had not seen each other. It was petty, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. After all that Angel had put her through, Giles did not believe the ensouled vampire was good enough for Buffy, whether he loved her or no.

There was also—and this was strange—an odd sense of . . . not quite satisfaction, but _assurance_ in knowing that Buffy had been upset at his working with Faith. That she cared enough to be angry or hurt about it. It was twisted, and it came with a sense of shame that cut Giles deeper than he would like to admit. Giving himself a moment, he removed his glasses and rubbed his temple.

“She’s avoiding me, isn’t she?”

Willow shrugged. “A little, yeah. I think she does want to see you. It’s just . . . a little weird.” Her mouth twisted into a frown. “To be honest, I don’t think any of us get it.”

Giles replaced his glasses. “Perhaps it’s not for you to ‘get’,” he said tiredly. Then, he sighed. “Please, can we, in fact, change the subject? How is Dawn?”

At the mention of Dawn, Xander perked up. “Still a very pretty giantess. She’s staying in the stable. Wanna go see her?”

Relieved, Giles nodded. As they all got up and headed out of the library, he wondered what Faith was doing at that moment, and if her ears were burning.


	3. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, hot off the press, no beta, no proofread. Just the product of insomnia. 
> 
> We do learn in this chapter that Giles' affection for Buffy may not be entirely one-sided.

Giles took dinner that evening with Willow, Xander, and Dawn outside near the courtyard. It had emptied out for the evening, most of the other Slayers having gone to the mess hall for dinner. It was chilly outside and the sun had already set, but Willow conjured a fire and Dawn’s impressive stature blocked out most of the wind. Xander had grabbed them all food from the mess hall (save for Dawn, who had eaten a substantial meal earlier to save her the embarrassment), and they ate companionably. Giles mainly listened whilst Xander, Willow, and Dawn each related stories from the past two months: things Giles had missed, funny incidents with the Slayers-in-training. They managed, miraculously, to avoid talking much about Buffy; even Dawn, who had not been privy to the conversation in the library (and certainly had her own problems to worry about) seemed to have gotten the memo. The evening passed without incident and, around nine P.M., Giles got up and announced that he was going to check on Klara before turning in. Led by the small green guidance orb Willow conjured for him, he made his way back towards the east wing, where both his and Klara’s rooms were.

By chance, he ran into Klara in the first-floor hallway in the east wing. She was in the company of Yiyun, and they were talking quietly as they walked. Klara (and, after a second, Yiyun) stopped upon seeing Giles. Klara leaned over and whispered something to Yiyun as Giles approached them, which caused Yiyun to raise her eyebrows.

“Good evening,” Giles said, giving them both a friendly smile. Klara was looking curiously at the small glowing orb that hovered to his right, but Yiyun was looking directly at Giles.

“You’re Mr. Giles,” Yiyun said, an unexpected trace of awe in her voice.

Giles blinked, slightly puzzled. “I, uh, yes. That’s me.”

Yiyun looked between Klara and Giles, eyes widening. “Coo-ool. You trained with Buffy’s Watcher?”

Klara blushed. “For several weeks, yes.”

Yiyun. “Wow. Coo-ool.”

Giles gave a delicate cough. “Excuse me, Yiyun, but do you mind if I borrow Klara for a moment?”

Yiyun nodded, black ponytail bobbing. “Yeah—I mean, yes, Mr. Giles.” She turned to Klara. “I’ll just see you back at the room, Klara.”

“OK,” Klara said softly. As Yiyun walked off, she threw one more glance back at them before disappearing around a corner.

Once Klara had turned back to face him, Giles raised an eyebrow. “That was curious.”

Klara shrugged. _“A lot of people know who you are. You and Willow and that Xander are almost as famous as Buffy,”_ she related quietly in German.

“I didn’t realize.”

 _“Well, it got a lot of people to talk to me, which is nice.”_ Klara flashed him a rare smile. _“You wanted to talk?”_

_“Just to check in. To see how you like it so far. I know it’s been less than a day but—”_

_“I like it here,”_ Klara blurted, interrupting him. She looked chagrinned for a moment, but then continued on. _“I like the girls. I like the . . . camaraderie. I . . . I think I want to stay.”_ She looked up at him questioningly. _“Would that . . . be OK?”_

Giles laughed a little in surprise. _“Of course. That was the whole point of bringing you here.”_

Klara seemed uncertain. _“It’s just that . . . Faith didn’t seem to want me to go.”_

_“Did she say something to you?”_

_“No. She just . . . became very quiet after we talked about me leaving.”_ She looked guiltily at the cobbled stone floor.

Giles gave a sigh. _“Klara, Faith fully understood that you were going to leave for a Slayer colony. We never intended you to stay with us forever. She trained you so that you would be ready to join the ranks of fellow Slayers. I think . . . I think she is quite proud of you. And, sometimes, it is hard to let go of the people we are proud of.”_

Klara said nothing. Her green eyes looked large and deep in the torchlight. He thought again, unbidden, of how she reminded him of Buffy.

He thought, too, of Faith, of her easy smiles quick to turn bitter, of her brusque and jocular nature, of her taciturn defense. She and Klara had probably never discussed Faith’s past—at least, not in any substantial way. Faith had probably regaled Klara with stories of her demon slaying, but never told her about the history that mattered.

 _“You should know . . . you should know that Faith and Buffy have . . . a complicated history. They met as teenagers. They were friends, for a time; then, bitter enemies. Now, they primarily avoid each other. It would take more time than we have to give you all the details, and I am not sure they are mine to share.”_ He looked at her seriously. _“You will likely hear things about Faith that are horrible. That are not kind. I cannot pretend that none of them are true; but I want you to understand that she has become a better person. That she has worked on herself. That she is trying to do good.”_ He gave a wry, tired smile. _“It’s the reason she decided to work with me. It’s the reason she wanted to help me track you down. Anyway, I . . . I just want you to know that.”_

Klara gazed at him for a long moment, not saying anything. Giles couldn’t read her expression well, but he could see the frantic flicker of thoughts behind her large eyes. Eventually, she gave him a slow nod.

 _“I will remember.”_ She bit her lip. _“I . . . I kind of want to meet Buffy.”_

Giles tried his best for a smile, but it felt strained. _“I am sure you will. In fact, I am told that she will be arriving back tomorrow.”_

Klara had narrowed her eyes at him. _“You don’t seem pleased.”_

_“I . . .”_

_“You and Buffy also have a complicated history?”_

Giles was startled into a laugh that verged on bitter. _“Well. Something like that. But none of this will influence how she treats you. I am sure you will get along fine.”_

Klara looked reassured by this. _“OK.”_

Giles gave her a smile. _“Anyway, I don’t mean to keep you. Would you like me to walk you to your room? I have a guide,”_ he gestured at the orb that was floating in lazy circles near his head.

Klara shook her head. _“No. I remember the way.”_

_“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”_

He watched her walk efficiently down the hallway and disappear around the same corner that Yiyun had several minutes ago. He then turned to the little orb and cleared his throat.

“I, erm, I’m ready.”

Following the orb, he made it to the room where Willow had magickally deposited his things without issue. The orb dissipated as soon as he opened the door, for which he was grateful; he couldn’t think of how to banish it.

His room was small but cozy; someone had lit the fire for him, though this appeared to be some hours earlier as it was crackling with a low flame. He threw a log onto it and poked about until it was kindling back to life. Then, he set about getting ready for bed.

As he did so, he kept thinking of his conversation with Klara. He wasn’t totally sure what had compelled him to say those things. He just . . . he felt a strange need to protect her. Actually, it felt similar to his original need to protect Buffy: she was only one young woman against all the world. A world that did not love her or appreciate her.

Of course, he realized as he changed into soft sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, if Faith found out about it, she would laugh at him, maybe chide him. He could hear her now: “You can’t protect me against the rumor mill, G. That thing is a fucking tinder box that I set on fire. It’s blazing like anything. Let them talk.”

He sat on the edge of the bed for several long minutes, turning his mobile phone over in his hands. He should text her. Let her know how things went. Tell her. . . .

In the end, he thought better of it. He went to bed without opening his phone.

-

The next morning, Giles found himself busy in the library, assisting Willow with research. She had explained that Buffy had recently come across a few vampires with strange brands in their skin; thinking that they were definitely connected, and maybe part of some larger underground group, Willow enlisted Giles’.

When he admitted to her that he was surprised, given her skill and knowledge, that she would want his help, Willow had simply smiled and said: “I may be powerful and all that jazz, but you’re still the ranking champion for esoteric and historical knowledge. I figured if anyone would have a clue about where these vamps came from, you would.”

So, they spent the morning in the library, Giles sifting through old tomes while Willow searched methodically on her laptop. They had a minor break-through around noon, having found at least the origin of the symbol: it was linked to an old, but not ancient, sect of vampires who were known for carrying out feeding frenzies in the form of ritual massacre. It was pleasing to have found a link, but did not bode well.

“We’ll have to tell Buffy as soon as she gets back,” Willow said, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “It—” her watch beeped, and she looked down at it, seeing a message on the little digital screen. “Oh. Actually, she just arrived.” She cast a nervous glance at Giles.

Giles, for his part, was attempting to quell his heart, which had picked up its pace unnecessarily. He cleared his throat, but could not think of what to say.

Willow licked her lips nervously. “Uh, she’ll, uh, probably want to get cleaned up and get a decent meal in before she sees anyone—and she had mentioned that she wanted to check in on the neophyte training this afternoon.”

Giles nodded, resolute. “You can tell her I’ll be there watching Klara train.”

-

They were not training in the courtyard today; rather, Willow had directed him to the large ballroom on the first floor, which had been outfitted to serve as a gym and training area. Various apparatuses lined the walls, and training mats had been placed on the floors. They looked odd and out-of-place against the vaulted and gilded ceilings and the remnants of fine décor. A strange sight indeed.

The ballroom had a main floor, where the training was taking place, but was surrounded on all sides by a balcony. A main staircase descended from the first floor to the ballroom level; while the neophytes had trickled down it and taken up their positions around the room, Giles veered off to the left where he leaned against the bannister of the balcony, watching.

They were doing some light sparring today. Four Watchers—Xander, Andrew, and two other young men named Tyler and Hanson—oversaw bouts of sparring between two Slayers at a time, giving them individual instruction. The girls who were not currently sparring practiced their own moves, stretched, or talked amongst themselves. Giles watched Klara, who was nervously sticking by Yiyun and one of Yiyun’s friends. While Yiyun and the other girl talked, Klara had her eyes fixed on the fighting.

About half an hour into this exercise, Klara was called into the ring. She walked nervously up to the mats being overseen by Andrew, and was joined by a tall, muscular brunette. Giles tried to tamp down the feeling of trepidation at seeing Klara’s opponent; Klara herself looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Andrew was saying something to both of them when, suddenly, at the other end of the ballroom, a small door opened.

It never ceased to amaze Giles how Buffy could command a room while being so small. Her entrance was not grand but, immediately, every single pair of eyes turned to look at her. From his vantage point—and his distance—Giles tried to take her in objectively. She looked fresh, as if she had just bathed, her blonde hair up in a messy bun. She wore a white tank top and loose, green trousers. A silver cross glinted at her neck.

He thought for a moment that she had not noticed his presence; but, as she approached the mat where Klara and the tall brunette were standing, he distinctly saw her head tilt as her eyes flicked upwards to meet his. He heart skipped a beat.

Almost immediately, the training in the room resumed. Buffy stood beside Andrew and watched as Klara and the brunette girl faced off. Klara looked especially nervous now, glancing repeatedly at the blonde newcomer. Klara obviously knew who she was; and Buffy, it seemed, knew who Klara was. Giles just hoped that Klara could refocus herself enough to last in the fight.

He needn’t have worried. Tall and built though the brunette Slayer was, Klara had agility on her side—and, Giles, thought proudly, perhaps even more natural skill. They went several rounds, most of which consisted of the brunette throwing heavy punches at Klara, who dodged them skittishly before darting in to deliver a blow of her own. When the brunette girl did manage to land a hit, Klara stumbled back hard, but regained her footing quickly. He felt another surge of pride as she executed an excellent feint, pretending to come in with her right arm but landing the actual blow with her left. By the end of the joust, it was a tie. Klara and the brunette shook hands congenially and left the mats to get water, as both were sweating and breathing somewhat heavily.

It was then that Buffy looked directly up at Giles.

He returned her gaze, keeping his expression neutral.

Giles followed Buffy with his gaze as she left the sparring mats and ascending the large staircase. When she rounded the corner of the balcony and walked towards him, he straightened from where he had been leaning on the balcony edge, facing her fully. As she drew closer, he saw that, though fresh, she looked haggard and strained—

And he thought, then, of one of the last times he had seen her. Lit by the soft glow of candlelight. Tired. Lovely. Eyes watchful. The room had been empty save for them, so quiet he had heard her breathing—

He stopped. He had tried to erase that memory from his mind. That it should come back to him now was more than aggravating.

She stopped a few feet from him, arms folded over her chest.

“Giles,” Buffy said. It was not so much a greeting as a statement. Her expression was stiff, almost steely.

“Buffy.”

A long silence ensued between them, broken only by the sounds of grunting and bodies hitting mats from below. Giles kept his eyes trained on Buffy’s face, even though her own eyes raked him up and down, assessing. Then, rather brusquely, she turned away, looking down at the scene below.

“That’s the girl you picked up in Germany, huh?” she said, nodding at Klara who was now on the sidelines, stretching and talking to the brunette she had been sparring with.

“Klara Sommer,” Giles supplied.

“She’s scrappy.”

“Yes, she is.”

There was a silence as Buffy struggled to find something else to say.

“How many vampires has she dusted?”

“About twenty, by my count—all under supervision.”

“Well,” Buffy replied tightly, “that’s more than some of them.” She continued to watch the floor.

“Yes.”

Another silence stretched between them, longer than the first. Giles had more or less resigned himself to standing in abject silence for the foreseeable future with Buffy when she suddenly spoke up:

“So: Xander tells me that you’re still playing ‘house’ with Faith. How’s that going?”

The tension in her tone did not escape him, nor did it surprise him. He had, in truth, been expecting this line of questioning. He did his best not to let his own tension, which coiled within him like a spring, get the best of him. “It’s fine.”

Buffy’s expression tightened further at his mild, if taciturn, reply. She forced out a laugh. “I imagined shacking up with someone like her would drive you bonkers. Worse than Spike.”

“She is surprisingly easy to live with.”

“What, no wild parties? No bringing random strangers home?”

He wanted to bristle at that; the truth was, he suspected that Faith still did attend such parties, and that she still had sex with veritable strangers, but he never heard about it. She never brought any of it home. “I think you’ll find she’s matured in the interim.”

For some reason, that comment caused Buffy to turn towards him once more. She looked Giles fully in the face now, her own pinching in frustration.

“I don’t understand you,” she said, her voice full of quiet anger. “Why _her?_ ”

“I need her,” he replied simply. “This operation only works with her.”

“I find that really hard to believe.” Buffy paused; she seemed to be trying very hard to control her anger, but it had been stewing for a long while and was creeping out the cracks in her façade. “Giles, she is . . . despicable. She tried to take everything from me. She almost succeeded. How can you do this? How can you expose young and impressionable Slayers to someone like that?” 

Her voice had risen as she spoke, and it put Giles even more on edge. “As I mentioned, she is not the person she once was. You need to learn forgiveness.”

It was, perhaps, not the wisest thing to say; he could be accused of sounding almost patronizing. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he was _trying_ to keep her angry. Anger, he could work with. Anger put him on the defensive, prevented him from being soft or thinking of her too softly.

But he was also in the strange position of _wanting_ to defend Faith. Of wanting Buffy to set aside her animosity and recognize that Faith was capable of something more than destruction.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. I can’t forgive what she did.”

Giles sighed then. He sighed because he knew that there was no way out of this conversation except through, and Buffy would expect him to throw his best shots. So, he delivered, answering simply:

“Why not? I forgave Angel.”

That admission stunned Buffy into silence. She looked as though she’d been struck across the face, her cheeks pink, mouth slightly open.

“I did,” Giles assured her quietly. “I forgave him for torturing me. For murdering Jenny. For hurting you. I forgave him. It wasn’t easy, but I worked at it. And I did it not because I thought I owed him anything; I did it for _you._ Because I knew that you still loved him, because I knew he was important to you, and because I knew that he regretted what he did and was trying to atone for it.”

Buffy seemed to struggle greatly over those words. “That isn’t fair. Angel has a demon inside him.”

“So does Faith,” Giles countered. “I would argue that hers is the more perilous, as it has no supernatural source.” He paused. “I’m not going to beg you to give her another chance. But I wish you would.”

“She had chances. Lots of them.”

“Buffy. . . .”

“I know she killed that Slayer, Genevieve.”

“Yes, she did,” Giles replied firmly. “Because I _asked_ her to.”

Buffy took a step closer; it accentuated her height disadvantage, made her have to tilt her head up more to look at him, but it also accentuated her ire. “And you couldn’t ask me? _I_ was the one Genevieve wanted to kill. I don’t know much else, but I do know that. Were you ever gonna tell me?”

“No. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Why _not_?”

Buffy had done a good job of not shouting, but that last question was almost of a loudness to attract attention. Giles deliberately did not look down at the floor below. He didn’t want to know. Instead, he continued to look into her face. Even now, he could not help the overwhelming fondness he felt for her.

He thought about her question. Why hadn’t he gone to Buffy? It was easy enough: He did not want to put Buffy in the position of having to kill another human being. He had seen before that she was not capable, that her morals prevented her; it was why, when Buffy defeated Glory but failed to kill her host, Ben, Giles stepped in and did the dirty work. He still remembered the way Ben had flailed weakly, uselessly under his grip in his last minutes of life, how long it had taken the young man to suffocate. Giles couldn’t ask Buffy to do something like that.

Yet, he could ask it of Faith. And it was only now, looking at Buffy, who was lovely even while glowing with righteous anger, that Giles realized how much of a double standard that was. He had asked Faith because he knew that her hands were already dirty. Because she understood, already, what it was to take a life. Giles had taken advantage of the fact that Faith, unlike Buffy, was not the morally superior protagonist. He had taken advantage of the knowledge that Faith thought of herself as damaged goods, as someone who had already ruined their chances to be the savior that Buffy was. Faith took for granted that she was already sullied, and did not think twice about the idea of abstaining from further acts of questionable morality, if it meant doing something for the greater good. Giles knew all this, and had used it shamelessly and ruthless to achieve his goal.

And he would continue to do so, when necessary. 

So, in the end, Giles had plenty of answers to Buffy’s question; but he had none that were not entirely fucked up.

In the silence that had ensued between them, Buffy’s anger seemed to have deflated a little. Her mouth, previously drawn in a tense line, had become softer. “We need you here,” she told him quietly. 

Giles sighed. He was tired of this conversation. “I’m still available, Buffy. I’m just . . . pursuing a different vocation—for the time being.”

“With Faith.”

“Yes.”

_“Why?”_

“Because I need the space!” he finally snapped—but his frustration dissolved as soon as he saw Buffy’s expression, which looked startled and hurt. “Buffy—”

“Is it . . . . is it something I did?”

Her mouth had begun to tremble; as Giles looked, he saw tears beginning to form at the edges of her eyes. She had gone from looking steely and irate to helpless so fast that it made his head spin. He hadn’t anticipated it—but, perhaps he should have. Buffy was under enormous strain and, in her daily life, there was no one whom she could readily show weakness to—no one but him. 

It was this predicament that had led to that moment in the library, now several months ago. The moment that had convinced him to leave her. When she had come to him, late, tired and battered and feeling the weight of the world upon her small shoulders. She had—

“No,” Giles returned softly, pulling himself out of his own thoughts. “No, it’s something _I_ . . . need to do.”

Buffy blinked hard, green eyes glistening. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.” When she gave him an incredulous look, he held up a hand. “What I mean is that—it’s not for you to worry about.” He tore his gaze from her and looked back at the ballroom floor where the Slayers were training. “You are doing excellent work here—you, and Xander, and Willow, and all the rest. _This_ is what you should be focused on. Training Slayers. Preparing them for the next battle. And, for now, my focus is to track down the Slayers that need help—including Faith.” 

“But you’re . . .” she trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence; but Giles heard what she meant to say, all the same.

 _But you’re **mine**_.

He was. He wanted to tell her that he was; but, at the same time, he wasn’t. He was not Buffy’s anymore than she was his. Their possession existed in a state of has-been: He had been her Watcher, and she had been his Slayer. But she had outgrown him, outgrown his care, and what that left them with was something more complicated and dangerous than he cared to contemplate.

Buffy stepped closer to him then, so close that she was almost brushing up against him. Giles kept his gaze on the ballroom floor, even though her presence beside him made his senses alight. Seeing that he would not look directly at her at this proximity, Buffy also turned her gaze to the ballroom floor.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said.

Giles gave a humorless laugh.

Just then, the Watchers called for a break. While most of the Slayers milled around and got water, Klara broke away from the group and walked over to the edge of the ballroom, looking up at Giles and Buffy where they were leaning on the balcony. Giles saw that she had a faint sheen of sweat about her and her cheeks looked rosy. 

_“What did you think, Mr. Giles?”_ Klara asked in German.

 _“Very good,”_ Giles replied warmly, then continued in English. “I am glad to see you are holding your own.”

“That’s a nasty left hook you have,” Buffy put in, forcing a smile.

Klara looked at her with a strange mixture of wariness and awe, as if unsure whether to trust this figure of legend but unable to not be impressed by her.

“Thank you,” she replied. Then, after a pause. “My right used to be better, but Faith always saw it coming.”

It was unclear if Klara meant this to be a joke of some sort, but at the mention of Faith’s name Buffy’s smile tightened even more. “That so.”

Klara, ever perceptive, looked uncertainly between Buffy and Giles. It looked like she was going to ask Giles a question when Buffy spoke up:

“We’re glad to have you with us, Klara. I think you’ll make an excellent member of the squad.” Some part of her smile was real this time, and Klara saw that too.

Klara returned her smile. “Thank you.”

-

Buffy left Giles standing on the balcony shortly after practice resumed. He remained for a while longer, watching Klara, thinking things over. Then, after a time, he left, returning to the library.

That evening, Giles took dinner in the mess with the rest of the castle’s inhabitants. Now that the more senior Slayers were back from the training mission, the mess was fuller and filled with talk of the recent excursion. Giles found himself at one end of a long and crowded table. Klara sat across from him, Xander to his left, and Willow next to Klara. Yiyun joined them as well, sitting on Giles’ right and pestering him with questions about his time training Buffy. Buffy, Giles noted, sat at the other end of the table, surrounded by Slayers. It seemed she had deliberately put them between herself and Giles; when she looked at him during the meal, it was a fleeting, almost furtive glance that she withdrew as soon as she found herself being watched back.

Though Yiyun kept Giles pretty well occupied and Willow and Xander made a good show of mild conversation, dinner was a rather uncomfortable affair. Everyone seemed to know that Giles and Buffy had had . . . an argument of sorts. There was a palpable tension in every word spoken and, as the evening wore on, Giles found that he did not have the patience for it.

He excused himself from the table early, on the pretense of asking Klara for a private word. She followed him dutifully out into the hallway outside of the mess where it was much quieter.

“I just wanted to check in once more,” he said. “I will be leaving tomorrow morning, and I want to make certain that you feel comfortable trying to make a life here.”

Klara nodded. “I do.”

Giles smiled, glad and relieved. “Good. We—I will check in with you every few weeks, to see how you are progressing. You can always reach out if you need anything.”

Klara nodded solemnly. Then, she held out her thin hand.

Giles clasped it in his own large one, and Klara smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Giles.”

“You’re welcome.”

While Klara returned to the mess hall, Giles went back to his rooms. He could not abide being around the others any longer. He did not want to be alone, per se; but he was feeling distinctly out-of-place here, and it made him long for his own home, away from Buffy. Things were much easier, much simpler that way.

Back in his room, Giles started a fire in the grate. Once he got it going, he tried to read from one of musty old books he had borrowed from the library, but found that his mind and eyes kept wandering. He could not help but turn over his conversation with Buffy—their argument, rather. Every time he closed his eyes or did not bother to focus his gaze, he saw her face: by turns angry and hurt.

It wounded him to see her that way, and he hated the thought that he was causing her any kind of pain. The memory of her green eyes glistening with unshed tears inevitably brought him back to another memory, one that he was desperately trying to avoid. One that would not leave him alone.

He sighed, going to sit on the edge of his bed, staring into the fire and then off into the dark corners of the room. It had been during the first six months of the Slayer Organization’s inhabitance at the castle, when he had still been a regular. He remembered those months as a blur: the challenge of having upwards of 20, then 30, then 40 Slayers under one roof, not to mention the Watchers and others who had joined the cause; the strain of establishing and maintaining Buffy’s leadership as they navigated both the supernatural and mundane. The endless conversations about battle, tactics, strategy. They had all been under enormous stress, Buffy more so than any of them. He blamed the stress on their arguments and disagreements, though they grew more intense and frequent with each passing day.

She had come to him, late one night when he was researching in the library. He had been exhausted, trying to see if he could find any reference to the mysterious force known as ‘Twilight’. He had also been, to some degree, avoiding her after a particularly fraught conversation they’d had earlier that day.

The library had been lit only by a few lamps, the warm glow of these casting dancing shadows in the corners and on the walls. And Buffy had come to him, looking tired and small and breakable. She had sat next to him at the library table, murmuring some kind of apology before going quiet. She had begun to shake, and at first Giles didn’t understand until he reached out and tilted her chin up so that he could see her face. She was crying.

And Giles should have known better; but she looked so lost and lovely in that moment, and he wanted to comfort her and protect her so badly, that he reached out to cup her cheek, gently wiping her tears away. She had closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into his hand, warm and intimate. The simply gesture had made the blood in his veins both freeze and be lit afire; he had begun to pull his hand back—

But she had brought her own hand up to his, keeping it against her cheek. And she had taken his hand in both of hers and held it, eyes closed, pressing first her forehead and then her cheek again. And, then, very softly, her lips—

Giles mentally shook himself. It was a dangerous reverie to be having. He shouldn’t be indulging it.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had pulled his mobile from his pocket and had hit ‘Call’ on Faith’s contact.

He had several moments to wonder if this was a bad idea. He almost thought she wasn’t going to answer when, on the fourth ring, she picked up.

_“G. What’s wrong?”_

He was surprised to hear her sound so concerned—but then realized that she probably hadn’t been expecting him to call. Giles cleared his throat. “I, erm—nothing. I just . . . I just thought I’d call. Give you an update.”

 _“Oh, OK.”_ She sounded a bit more relaxed.

Giles suddenly felt uncertain. Perhaps he shouldn’t have called. “Did I catch you in the middle of something? Are you— going out?”

 _“No—I mean, I might later, but I’m at home for now.”_ Her use of the word ‘home’ struck him. _“I was just kinda surprised that you called, that’s all. How’s our girl doing?”_

“Rather well, I think. She wants to stay.”

 _“Good. She’ll do well there.”_ There was a pause, as Faith waited for Giles to say something. When he didn’t, she continued: _“And how are your Scoobies?”_

“They’re fine.” He thought about giving her an update, but didn’t think she really wanted to know.

_“And Buffy?”_

“She’s . . . also fine.”

He was worried that his taciturn responses would annoy Faith—it was _he_ , after all, who had called _her_ —but she easily read between the lines.

_“Still pissed, huh?”_

Giles grimaced. “In a word, yes.”

_“For what it’s worth, I hope she’s pissed at me and not at you.”_

It was an unusually empathetic and kind thing for Faith to say. He wasn’t totally sure what to do with it. He simply sat there stupidly, at the edge of his bed, staring into the crackling fire.

_“Giles?”_

“I think she feels betrayed by me.” The words came out of him without warning. “She doesn’t understand my motives, but she suspects something. She said she believed that I was keeping something from her.”

_“Well, you kinda are.”_

Giles removed his glasses and wiped a hand across his face. “Don’t remind me. Christ.”

 _“You got it bad, G.”_ He thought he could hear the uncurrent of a smile in her voice.

“You must think me pathetic.”

_“No, I think you need to get laid.”_

Her blunt response surprised a genuine laugh out of him; replacing his glasses, still chuckling, he shot back her words from several days ago: “Are you offering?”

On the other end of the line, he heard a returning burst of soft but enthusiastic cackling. _“Hell yeah, you bet, just gimme a few days for Aunt Flo to pack her bags—”_

“I was joking, Faith.”

 _“I wasn’t. ‘Sex relieves the tension that love creates’ or some shit, right? We could have fun.”_ She paused. _“Although, I guess it’s better that we don’t. I, uh, don’t have the best track record with the guys I sleep with. Lots of falling out.”_

“I noticed.”

_“And I like working with you. So, I’d rather avoid that.”_

That drew a smile from him, which he was glad that she could not see. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

_“Later, G.”_

-

Giles left the next morning. He took breakfast in the mess with Klara and Yiyun, who hadn’t yet run out of questions. After breakfast, he said his final goodbye to Klara before she headed with Yiyun to training, promising again to check up on her in a few weeks.

He spent some of the morning in the stables with Dawn and Xander, chatting idly before saying his goodbyes. Then, he went to the arboreum, where Willow had told him to meet her.

She had already drawn up a circle and sigils. His bag, which he had packed before breakfast, stood inside the circle already. She smiled at him in greeting, and went in for a fierce hug.

“It’s been good to see you,” she told him.

“You as well.”

“Did you, uh, say goodbye to Buffy?”

He hadn’t; he hadn’t even tried. Perhaps it was cowardly of him, but he got the distinct impression that she was avoiding him again.

“No. I thought . . . best not.”

Willow gave him a lopsided smile. “She’ll come around. She always does.”

Giles smiled half-heartedly. “I hope you are right.”

He stepped into the circle with his belongings. Willow began the incantation and, just as it had the first time, Giles felt the magick take him.

-

He appeared back in the same salt circle that he had made days before. Looking around, he saw that the circle had been cared for and the sigils redrawn in fresh chalk, though a light rain was beginning to wash both away. The sky was dark, making the grass shine a deep forest green instead of emerald. Directing his gaze across the lawn and towards his house, he saw that the light in the living room was on.

Something that had been squeezing his chest for the last several days eased almost immediately.

When he opened the backdoor into the living room, he was greeted by warmth, the smell of cooking—and Faith, laying on the couch, flipping aimlessly through a think booklet. She tossed it down immediately when she saw him, sitting up swiftly.

“Giles.”

“Hello, Faith.” He removed his glasses and wiped the raindrops from them.

She got up from the couch and, as Giles replaced his glasses, he saw that she was wearing a black tank top over grey trousers and no make up. There was something both on edge and vulnerable about her that he couldn’t quite place. She seemed to be looking at him as if she didn’t really believe he was real.

“I, uh, I made lunch.”

She turned heel suddenly and padded off the kitchen.

Too surprised to comment, Giles dropped his bag by the sofa and followed her.

Lunch turned out to be a shepherd’s pie style casserole. And, as he tucked in, Giles wasn’t sure what astounded him more: the fact that Faith had cooked something more complicated than breakfast, or the fact that it was not only edible, but _good._ He contemplated this as they both ate in comfortable silence. Once he was finished with his portion, Giles pushed his plate away and commented, “That was delicious. I had no idea you could cook.”

“That’s like the only thing I really know how to make besides burgers and shit. A real Pat Lehane Special.” She shrugged.

He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, noticing that they did not settle comfortably but retained some of their tension. “How have things been here?”

“Fine. Quiet. Didn’t even nail a vamp on patrol last night.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing.”

Faith grunted noncommittally.

Giles tiled his head. “Something on your mind?” he asked.

Faith sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “Nothing. It’s just that, I was wondering for a minute there if you were going to come back at all.”

Giles considered her. “I said I would,” he replied steadily.

“Yeah, well a lot of people have said that to me. You’ll forgive me for being skeptical.” She got up then; he thought, based on her tone, that was intending to walk out of the kitchen. Instead, she grabbing his empty plate and took it, along with her own, to the sink. She set them down harder than she ought to have, and Giles thought he detected the sound of cracking ceramic. She refused to look at him, instead turning on the faucet to rinse the plates.

“You don’t have to be skeptical about me,” he told her over the running water, keeping his voice as even as before. “If I had any intention or consideration of staying, I would have let you know.”

“Sure.”

“Faith.”

She turned off the faucet and rounded on him, eyes flashing. _“What?”_

“I have already spent three days in tense company,” Giles told her tiredly. “I don’t want to have that with you.”

Faith seemed to deflate a little at that, looking the closest to truly chagrinned that Giles had ever seen her. “Sorry. I guess I just . . . have abandonment issues or some shit. I dunno.”

“It’s understandable,” he offered. 

She rolled her eyes. “Everything is just so damn reasonable and understandable with you, isn’t it?”

“Faith—”

“Look, can we just drop it?”

He paused for a moment; he didn’t want to drop it but, in all honesty, he didn’t have the energy for this conversation. “If you insist.”

“I do,” Faith said firmly. “I don’t wanna talk about it, but I don’t wanna fight with you either. Let’s just . . . move on and talk about something else.”

“Such as?” he asked mildly.

She grinned, and it changed her entire demeanor in an instant.

“Getting you laid.”

“ _Faith—_ ”

Her lip curled and she leaned against the counter; the posture had the advantage of making her appear insouciant, and also putting her figure on display. Teasing. Tempting. She raised her eyebrows at him, almost mocking. “You could still take me up on my offer. Aunt Flo’s gone and I’m open for business.”

“No,” he said firmly, though a grin was curling his mouth. “No, I think I’ll just go upstairs and take a nap. I’m quite tired.” He got up from the table, pushing his seat back in and moving towards the doorway of the kitchen.

“Killjoy,” Faith muttered as she turned back to the dishes.

“I am well-aware.” He was about to exit to the living room and then up to his bedroom when he was struck with a sudden, almost uncontrollable surge of mischief. He paused at the doorway, turning back to look at her. “And Faith?”

She looked up. “Yeah?”

“For the record: As you have noted, I am a grown man. A little blood doesn’t scare me.”

Faith narrowed her eyes . . . and then slowly grinned.

“You—”

Before she could finish that sentence, Giles swept out of the kitchen and began making his way to his bedroom. He thought he heard the faint sound of Faith cackling all the way up the stairs.

-

Giles slept hard and longer than he intended. He had dreams, but he blessedly did not remember them when he woke. It was nearly seven in the evening when he found himself blearily blinking awake in the dark of his bedroom, the soft sounds of rain at his window.

He sensed immediately, upon waking, that he was alone in the house. In the past, that might have worried him; but now he simply concluded that Faith had probably gone out, perhaps to clear her head or distract herself.

He rolled himself out of bed, feeling not quite rejuvenated by his nap, but at least less worn than when he had laid down. He cracked his neck and his back, groaning at the release of tension.

In socked feet, he exited his bedroom and made his way back down to the first floor. The living room, when he entered, was dark and still; he lingered for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, contemplating. If Faith had gone out, he would likely be doing dinner by himself, and he wouldn’t say no to more of that casserole.

He was about to make a B-line for the kitchen when something clinked in the lock on the front door. The handle turned, and it opened to reveal Faith. She was wetter than she should have been, given the umbrella she was holding over herself, but Giles saw that she was doing her best to shield some plastic bags from the worst of the downpour.

“Hey,” she said, setting the bags down and closing the umbrella. She dripped onto the rug in the entryway. Setting the umbrella to lean against the wall, she bent down and picked up the bags again. She walked forward, toeing off her wet shoes and leaving them on the hallway carpet. “I brought takeout.” She held up the bags, which were thankfully dry.

Giles blinked. “Oh. I thought you had gone out.”

“Yeah, well, the shepherd’s pie exhausted my cooking know-how. I figured you’d be hungry when you got up, so I went and got curry from that tiny-ass Indian place you like.” Before he could say anything, she walked around the sofa and plopped the bags of takeaway on the coffee table before the couch; then, she walked over to him, brushing past him as she began to climb the stairs. She was removing her damp jacket, and saying:

“I’m just gonna change real quick, you can go ahead and eat.”

He didn’t, but he go to the kitchen and grab a few plates before moving to sit at one end of the couch and unpack the food she had bought. The smell of masala, steamed basmati rice, and naan were all heavenly to him; he wondered vaguely what he had done to deserve this kindness.

Faith came down a few moments later, in lounge shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Giles frowned. It was a band t-shirt, but not one that he recognized.

Faith grinned as she came closer and sat down at the other end of the couch. “You like?” she asked plucking a the black t-shirt with the word “SLAYER” in slanted red letters across the front.

“That isn’t mine.”

“Nah. I picked it up at a Salvation Army last year. I don’t listen to them. I just thought it was funny.” She grinned and pulled a plate (and the vegetable korma) towards her.

Much as with lunch, they ate in silence, though it was more companionable now without the threat of unspoken insecurities hanging between them. Giles got up at one point to pour them both drinks. When he handed a tumbler to Faith, their fingers brushed briefly.

After a while, when they had both eaten their fill and were sipping on their whisky, Faith commented:

“It feels too quiet without her—Klara, I mean.”

Giles made a “hm” sound and took a sip from his whisky. “She wasn’t exactly boisterous.”

“Yeah, but . . . I don’t know, it’s different. A little empty.”

He looked over at her then; she had pulled her legs up so that her knees were to her chest, making her look smaller than usual. Her hair, still damp from the rain, fell in dark waves across her shoulders.

“Hm,” he murmured again. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Faith nodded almost absently. Then, after another few minutes, she got up, unfolding herself easily from the couch. She padded over to the corner of the living room, where Giles’ guitar leaned up against the wall in its case. Picking it up, she brought it over to him. Giles looked up at her in surprise.

“Play me somethin’,” she said simply.

He took the case from her. While she went to settle back on her end of the couch, he removed the guitar and began the process of checking the stringers, tuning the ones that had gone flat. Once satisfied, he strummed the strings experimentally, warming up his fingers. He looked up at her.

“Any requests?”

She shook her head. “Nah. Just fill the silence.”

He did. At first he played songs without words, just soft arpeggiations and trills. Then, he moved onto more secular music, instrumental renditions of songs by bands such as The Who and The Clash (he was still a proper, old-school British punk at heart). After a while, he began to sing as well, murmuring over Chris Isaak. Faith hadn’t asked him to sing, and he ordinarily felt self-conscious about singing in front of people who weren’t complete strangers; but, as he closed his eyes, he let himself be lost in the momentum of the song, singing just loud enough to be heard over his guitar.

Sitting in the peace of that moment, he realized that remnants of whatever tension he had been carrying with him since arriving in Scotland had finally eased.

When he opened his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Faith’s expression, unguarded and fonder than he had ever seen. When he blinked, it was gone.

He wondered if he might have imagined it.


End file.
